


Coming of Age

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Birthday Party, Coming of Age, Gen, Hobbits, New Beginnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 06:00:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6553807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Book version.  What happened after the party, when all the fuss of Bilbo's departure had died down?  Frodo Baggins suddenly finds himself the master of Bag End and of his own fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming of Age

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the Shire or any of the lovely people in it. They all belong to JRR Tolkien. I am only paddling in the shallows of his very deep lake.

It was very late and Frodo stood at the open bedroom door. Bilbo’s special birthday waistcoat lay, in its box, on the smooth bedspread, along with his fine velvet jacket, the quilted satin of its broad collar, glowing in the candlelight. A fire burned, welcomingly in the grate.

Where would Bilbo be sleeping tonight? Under the stars . . . or at an inn? Bilbo was fond of his feather beds. More likely an inn, then. Frodo pressed the mattress of the big bed with one hand. It yielded willingly. He had slept in it only once when he had first come to Bag End. There had been a violent thunderstorm and he had sneaked in with his Uncle, feeling a little guilty to be so frightened as a tweenager. Bilbo had said nothing, just hugged him close until he fell asleep. Should this be his bedroom now, as the Master of Bag End? He turned away and crossed to the armchair by the fire. Perhaps it would, one day, but not now. For the moment, this was still Bilbo’s room.

An old pipe lay, discarded and forlorn, on the mantelpiece by a jar of pipe weed. Old Toby. The room smelled faintly of it…smelled of Bilbo…Old Toby and lavender water. A weight in his hand made the young hobbit glance down at the envelope he held. He had forgotten he still had the ring. Why had Bilbo left like that…just put the ring on and disappeared? With no goodbye unless you counted the one spoken across the noisy Party Field.

Frodo realised what had happened as soon as he vanished…had tried to follow him, knowing that he would head for home. But Gandalf’s firework and the sudden public disappearance of his uncle had left a great many angry and upset hobbits and Frodo had found himself surrounded within moments. He had only been able to watch over a sea of heads, helplessly, as Gandalf strode quickly back up the hill to Bag End. It had taken the young hobbit what seemed like an age to extricate himself and when he had run into the hall, desperately calling his uncle’s name, he had known at once that Bilbo was gone. He couldn’t say how he knew…he just did. There was an echoing emptiness to the place that had never been there before. Gandalf had been waiting of course, but he was not Bilbo. 

It hurt that Bilbo had not waited for him and yet, perhaps it was better that way. It would have been a very tearful goodbye.

They had discussed his leaving, of course. In fact, Bilbo had broached the subject for the first time in this very room. The older hobbit had a bit of a cold and Frodo had insisted that he stay in bed for the day. Then Frodo had sat in the armchair and they had talked for hours. That was when his uncle had told him the full story of the finding of his ring, not the one about it having been a present, but the full tale. 

He had even owned up to cheating in the riddle game with Gollum. Frodo had been a little amused for it was clear that Bilbo was not proud of that moment. His prowess at the riddle game had always been a source of satisfaction to him and it irked his uncle that his intellect had failed him on this occasion. Bilbo and Frodo had spent the rest of that February afternoon exchanging riddles. It was one of their favourite games. Frodo sighed and tucked his feet up beneath him on the large chair. There would be no more rainy afternoons spent in that pastime, now.

Bilbo had mentioned his leaving several times after that. At first it had been merely an expression of longing…a desire to revisit the places of his infamous journey. Then, over a period of time the ‘maybe’ had turned into ‘when’. Eventually, Bilbo had even suggested a time; Frodo’s coming of age. But he had never actually sat his nephew down and told him that he would be leaving on a particular day at a particular time. For his part, Frodo had tried to avoid even thinking about it… a part of him believing that ignoring it would prevent it happening. He was torn between a love of his home and a thirst for adventure. Then the preparations for the grand party had gone into full swing and the topic had been conveniently forgotten in the bustle. But now the party was over and Bilbo was gone.

Frodo’s eyes wondered, aimlessly, about the familiar room, the flicker of the fire beginning to lull him towards sleep, although he fought it, still. A candle burned low on the washstand in the corner, a damp towel thrown over the edge, where Bilbo had hurriedly washed before leaving. 

Frodo would have to heat his own wash water tomorrow morning. After thirteen years they had fallen into a routine. Bilbo would rise first, putting water on to heat, and bringing it to both their rooms. Then Frodo would go to the kitchen and begin preparing first breakfast, while Bilbo opened any mail or tidied up a little. Frodo would have to find a new routine now. But he didn’t want a new routine, he thought, blinking away tears. He quite liked the old one.

Suddenly, he felt very small. It was as though Bag End had swallowed him whole and he was not sure that he would ever be able to fill up its corners the way Bilbo did. The smial had never felt too big when his uncle was around. He seemed to permeate every nook and cranny. At every turn there was something of him, a pipe, a scrap of paper with his spidery writing crawling across it, a jacket thrown across the back of a chair. Then there were the noises. Singing coming from the kitchen, the scratch of his pen in the study, the soft slap of his feet on the tiled floor of the hallway.

Frodo yawned, snuggling deeper into Bilbo’s overstuffed armchair. The night sounds of the smial stole into his ears: the creak of the round wooden doorway contracting in the cooling evening air, the snap of the fire in the hearth at his side and the tiny rustle of a mouse, somewhere behind the panelling in the hallway. One sound was missing, the soft snoring of his uncle. For so many years, Frodo had been lulled to sleep by the companionable snores of his uncle, drifting through the wall to his bedroom; a buzzing lullaby, and now the smial felt silent. It was like listening to a favourite piece of music but having some of the notes missing and it grated on his soul.

Even with Gandalf’s comfortable sleeping presence stretched out on the parlour floor, wrapped in his cloak by the fire, Frodo felt very lonely. No…. not just lonely … abandoned. It was a feeling he had not experienced for many years. As a child, his parent’s death had affected him that way. They had died in an accident but, to his child’s mind, they had abandoned him. Then Bilbo had come along and Frodo’s world had found an anchor once more.

The excitement of the day, the warmth of the fire and the comfort of the chair conspired against him and, even as the young hobbit considered where he would find an anchor now, his eyelids dropped and he fell into exhausted sleep, the envelope still held lightly in his hand. 

Surprisingly quiet for such a large person, Gandalf slipped in and tucked a quilt about Frodo’s sleeping form, laying a hand upon his curls for a moment, before returning to the parlour.

Frodo stirred at the sound of his curtains being drawn, screwing up his face and turning away as the sunshine of a bright autumn morning pierced his eyelids. Bilbo? He opened bleary eyes, the product of a little too much ale and not enough sleep, and tried to blink the world into focus, hearing the clink of a water jug being placed on the washstand.

“Good morning, Mr Frodo, Sir. I wasn’t sure whether you’d be wanting a wash or a bath in the mornings so I’ve just brought the jug, but it wont be no bother to go and heat more if you’d prefer a bath.”

Frodo came fully alert. “Sam? What are you doing here?”

Sam crossed to the fire and began poking the embers back to life, looking up at Frodo from the hearth. “Didn’t Mr Bilbo tell you, sir? He left instructions with the Gaffer that from today I was to come and help out in the house, as well as the garden.” His eyes opened wide. “He gave me a year’s wages in advance. Although if I’m not to your suiting, Mr Frodo, I’ll pay it back of course. I aint never seen so much money all in the one place at the same time but it’s set aside and you can have it back if you’re not happy.” It was the longest speech he had ever heard Sam make and when his voice trailed off Frodo used the opportunity of the pause to laugh.

“Oh Sam. I’m delighted. I couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather have about the place. How clever of Bilbo to think of it.” Dear Bilbo. He had known how empty Bag End would be. Frodo pushed back the quilt (how had that got there?) setting his feet on the floor. And found that he still held the envelope containing Bilbo’s ring. Stretching and giving a wide yawn, Frodo popped it on the mantelpiece. He would find somewhere safe for it later. 

“You keep that money, Sam. I think we’ll suit just fine.” He crossed to Bilbo’s washstand and poured some hot water into the bowl. Turning in confusion as he heard a scuffle at the door.

“Well it’s about time you woke up, cousin. We were beginning to think you’d miss first and second breakfast,” announced Merry, from where he lounged against the doorframe.

“If you don’t want yours, can I have it?” asked Pippin from his side, a look of mock innocence on his cheeky face.

“What are you two doing here?” asked Frodo, in surprise. “I thought most people had gone home last night. Weren’t you supposed to be leaving with friends?”

“Bilbo asked us to stay. Owwww” Pippin exclaimed, as his cousin kicked him.

“You didn’t think you’d get rid of us that easily, did you?” asked Merry. His face was smiling but his eyes looked deep into Frodo’s and the Master of Bag End saw understanding, not amusement, in that gaze. Then Merry spun Pippin around and shoved him out of the door. “Come on Pip, lets see if we can eat our way through the contents of the breakfast table before Frodo manages to show his face.”

Sam shook his head. “Don’t you worry, Mr Frodo. Take as long as you like. I’ll make sure there’s some left for you.” Then he left the room, closing the door, quietly, behind him.

Frodo paused as he picked up the lavender scented soap, listening to Sam whistling in the kitchen and Pippin and Merry trying to wheedle Gandalf into letting them have one of the unused fireworks from the party. “Just one?”

The Master of Bag End looked about the room in the bright morning light and smiled, softly. The smial did not feel too big today. It was a much more comfortable fit…like a favourite overcoat. “Thank you, Bilbo.”

THE END.


End file.
